James Cambell:

I'm livin' in hell, where all these niggas got stories to tell, I be blastin' on these bitch niggas, serving 'em well... And the company I keep be the scum of the earth, body tatted, hair matics, sellin' keys... If you fuck with these law breakin' G's, screamin' "Fuck the Police", we gone ball for that little nigga shit, what the fuck you figure... Timberland boots, and .45 with Nickel plates, findin' niggas dead, now bring 'em on, I can't wait... If niggas is real and they ain't scared to spit it, all that jaw bonin' shit, fuck you, I ain't with it... Cause when I say jump, nigga say how high, or I'll stab you in your fuckin' eye, now let's get busy nigga...

Chours

Fatal:

Keep it coming, these niggas get done and on any runnin, I smerk then jerk, on a drink I'm puttin' in work... then pass it off to my little man, like he blast it off, beyond that, you livin' on a burrel a hum at... Criminal general, with buck .45 cow, endin' yo style, I'm the Master of this whole fuckin' shit... Storm be buckin' shit, you don't know who you fuckin' with, y'all faced out, duckin' quick, the number one porolie... slap shots like a goalie, the .40 glock like stilts, holdin' off shorty rocks, gettin' money with the .40 cocked...

Chours

James Cambell:

Some niggas carry coats, but they scared to bust, and I'll be lookin' thru yo ass like you pleckcy glass... So I send my pretty bitch swingin' tits and ass, pearl handle on the burner and she blast and fast... a lot of niggas know my Rep, but it don't mean shit, until you witness for yourself just how live it get... And I never let no rhymin' ass bitch share Mic with me, until I see her versility, you get the fuckin' picture... I swear by everything I spit in my rhymes, it's only hollow point I spit out my .9, guerilla niggas on the block when I'm passin' thru, I bust six in the air nigga, just for you... And if I ever get caught sleepin', would you ever doubt what happened, I'd be the last nigga rappin', I'd keep my fuckin' guns clappin...

Fatal:

Whatever tho', fake ass niggas'll never know, smellin' they own shit when I whip the Baretta slow... the .9 millie, fake thug niggas that's gettin' silly, blowing 'em and showing 'em, cause my dogs don't know 'em... I don't give a fuck how small, big, and tall, come and get me and I'll talk on how I slid you all... attack attics, spray act matics relently, and the toughest on ya squad can't ride and bench this... I don't know what these niggas be thinkin' when they see me, niggas call me Whoodini, blast and poof like a Jeenie... I sat wack raps and stick 'em like Corner Backs, y'all niggas is jumpin' jacks and bluffin' on wax... Thinkin' you can tell, meet me in my little town, we lost niggas for life, out here they can't drown me... I'll be buried a alive, they might can dig me back up, too tall for lust, up in these bitches when I fuck...

Chours